


infinity

by rexflame



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: I'm Bad At Tagging, Introspection, M/M, estinien wyrmblood kind of sort of talks about his feelings maybe, hw msq spoilers, not really but he has them and that's what counts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 22:49:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11450694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexflame/pseuds/rexflame
Summary: if you please, never leave, i need to keep it.(estinien is healing, and aymeric fills in the cracks.)





	infinity

**Author's Note:**

> hey i need to stop writing ffxiv fic at four am but also: fuck it  
> i'm really happy with this, though!
> 
> (also i finished the hw msq and i don't own stormblood so i'm going to write these gay idiots until i die)

Estinien is not certain what to think when he awakens to flowers on his bedside table.

 

They’re a pink-fading-into-orange, a sort of sappy sunset that he’s certain an artist could spend days painting. But he’s no artist - nor, for that matter, is he exceptionally fond of flowers - and so he simply resigns himself to a sigh, certain as he is of who placed them there. Well, really, there’s two options - that ever-selfless Warrior of Light, or Ser Aymeric.

 

The card signed in blue calligraphy, propped against the vase, suggests the latter. The softly looped “Ser Aymeric de Borel” in the corner confirms it. 

 

He lets out a sigh, pulling a hand through his hair, feeling it catch on the matted knots that have accumulated in the days of bedrest. It seemed Aymeric was always to be like this - too soft for his station, sending flowers to a man with too many mistakes on his shoulders. Quite the relationship they had, them.

 

Estinien reaches out and runs his fingers over their delicate petals, feeling the fragility of life against his skin, feeling something hum in his veins - something far foreign to destruction. 

 

Every time he thinks about Aymeric, he gets this way - a sort of feeling like he may cry, or burst. A feeling that he’d lift his lance again, if it were in Aymeric’s name, forever his, forever yours. There’s a cluster of small blue flowers near the rim of the vase. 

 

He knows those, knows what they mean - forget-me-nots, and allows himself a smile at this sentimentality, this gentleness, that somehow reaches his heart.

 

Finally, he turns to the card, picking the stiff paper into his hands and running his thumb over it. It’s comforting, in a way, grounding - it reminds him that he is here, even as he had been prepared to die. Had deserved it, perhaps, but it was a reckoning to come another day.

 

“To my dearest friend,” is written at the top, and Estinien chuckles despite himself.

 

The letter holds the simplistic formality he expects from Aymeric, with that touch of softness that shakes his soul. It’s nothing special, and yet Estinien allows himself this: he lifts it to his lips first, brushing it against the chapped skin, and then puts it close to his beating heart. The irregular pulse. Aymeric’s light. Estinien’s shadow.

 

There is all of it, at once, illuminated in the sunlight streaming through open blinds. He feels exposed like this, and hurries to set the paper down when there is a knock at his door.

 

“It’s open,” he replies, feeling distant from his own voice, a tone gravelly with disuse. 

 

He isn’t the least surprised to see Aymeric’s face, but feigns it anyway. A single raised eyebrow, a tilted head, taking in the bags under Aymeric’s eyes. None of them are sleeping. Aymeric looks more gaunt than usual, more tight around the edges, like a wind-up toy turned too many times. Estinien, even with all his lacking social graces, has the decency not to ask. They both know the answer.

 

Aymeric’s earring bounces as he opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again, and the refracting light is dazzling.

 

“I am glad to see you healing,” are the words he finally choses, lips in a thin mockery of a smile.

 

Estinien nods, looking past him. He does not want Aymeric to read his eyes, as he so oft does. He does not want his emotions laid bare. 

 

“Indeed. I should be well in a short while.”

 

They speak as if it were small talk. As if nothing had occurred - as if Estinien’s injury were but an unfortunate accident - and he knows this is the way of politics, this is the mask Aymeric has been chosen to wear.

 

They all wear their own shields, he supposes.

 

“Flowers?” Estinien finally queries, when he feels all-but choked by the silence.

 

“Do you not like them?” Aymeric asks, diplomatically, as always.

 

“I do happen to be allergic,” is his deadpan reply, but even so, he brushes a thumb against the tender green stem, and reminds himself he does not have to only take life.

 

“Yet they are not unwelcome.”

 

“Of that, I am glad.”   
  
This time, Aymeric’s smile does reach his eyes, filling them with warmth, and Estinien finally dares to meet them. He is drawn in, captivated - and he has had enough of being captured by eyes to last him a life time.

 

“There is life in you yet,” Aymeric’s voice is soft, but resounds in the empty room.

 

It is then that Aymeric makes quick strides to the vase, standing but an arm’s length from Estinien - if he so wished, he could cup Aymeric’ face in his hand, trace his chest and steal this safety from a man who belongs to far more than just he. But Estinien is not this kind of man, selfish, but not a fool. 

 

This is why he hides his expression, too, when Aymeric brushes a hand against his ear and hair.

 

It takes a moment for Estinien to figure the intent of the action - he had not been gifted a mirror, nor did he care for one - but a simple lift of his hand has his fingers brushing over petals, nestled softly against his hair. The feeling rising in him, unbidden, is almost too much to bear, and he bites his lip lest he be blinded. The holy white light before him does not surrender. 

 

“How can you do this?” Estinien breathes, wavering with every wet inhale.

 

“So easily.”

 

“I believe it comes with the territory,” is Aymeric’s wry reply, a gentle look on his face that makes Estinien feel as if he’s burning.

 

“I rather like to find myself a professional in Estinien handling.”

 

Somehow, it’s that joke - it’s that that shakes Estinien further than he’s felt in years, leaves him open and raw, sends him stepping forward and towards Aymeric’s already-open arms. There is someone who yet knows him, and when Aymeric wraps his arms tightly around him, Estinien is at once possessed with the desire to flee.

 

“It will be alright,” the Lord Commander mutters, as if he’s assuring a small child - but he is assuring himself as much as he is assuring Estinien.

 

Estinien moves his arms, awkwardly, mindful of the still-stiff soreness, mindful of the way his skin sears at Aymeric’s softest touch, and grips the back of Aymeric’s shirt as a lifeline. In a moment, he has decided that he does not want to let go, and his face falls to Aymeric’s shoulder, some tightness in him being freed, a burning ember being laid to rest.

 

“I know,” he nearly hiccups, a mumble, a moment of weakness.

 

“Of course it shall.”

 

(he feels aymeric’s lips brush against his head, then, and for a moment, he sees the heavens, he sees this - 

aymeric is a light he cannot reach. he is content to be its shadow, so that it may glow brighter.

they will speak of this later. estinien will not have cried. aymeric will not have been so forward.

still they will carry this in their hearts.)


End file.
